Morrigan studied the face across from her—the wrinkles that had once been barely suggested now looked knife-scored. He hadn't aged physically, but somewhere far deeper; as if a stranger's shadow had passed through him, leaving hollows in its wake. As if an unknown artist's hand had sharpened the Seeker's features. The dark circles beneath his tired eyes had become black pits. The strange interplay of light and shadow effortlessly turned a living man's face into a ghastly mask…
Moistening her suddenly dry lips and keeping her thoughts locked down by sheer will, the witch carefully made the "first step":
— Hints… A familiar game. And you know well enough I can grasp the meaning behind a wall of words.
Searching the man's set features for weakness or a flicker of emotion, she continued:
— In times past, my answer to such a provocation would have been simple… Rage. Oh… Wrath and sarcasm—an excellent defense. So it seemed to me… And so it seems. But not now… Not anymore.
The sorceress's eyes glinted for an instant with bright scarlet, as if her gold had flushed with fresh, warm blood pulsing from a deep wound:
— Events and people—a puzzle. Benedict wasn't the first. It happened earlier—during meetings with women. Who, doesn't matter. Or no longer matters. But the chain starts there. Next, your partner went to the place where only a Seeker could reach without… incident. Aeonar. Given your hint… yes, this will sound a bit strange.
Morrigan exhaled with deliberate slowness, pausing to choose her words:
— In that moment, and in that very place, your partner's path ended once and for all.
Tristan made no sound, didn't even blink—only nodded slowly.
— And so, there was a pause in these… leaps. Preparation? Obviously… And then… an arrow released from the bowstring. Straight into the mother's heart. I know… I'm repeating myself. All this needs to be said.
With effort, the witch wrenched her gaze from her companion and let it fall upon her hands. Though her face was frozen into a mask, inwardly she was surprised at her own calm. Her wrists rested loosely at her hips. Although… her curled fingers should have been trembling with tension—with the urge to run, to fight, to bite and scream. Yet despite everything, even her heartbeat felt steady—foreign. Lifting her eyes again, Morrigan broke the silence, her voice low and insinuating:
— Yes. The mother was an obstacle… a mountain, no less. But this… 'wanderer' succeeded. As he always had before. You said earlier—someone is looking into this world through my eyes. A silent observer, the one you wanted to put your questions to. Now we both know where that 'puppeteer' image came from. With that, though not without questions, what was known before falls into place. Nightmares, strangeness, deceptive memory… my 'success'. And now…
Morrigan worked her jaw, as if trying to crush down what she had to say:
— Before you is not Morrigan. Is that the idea? Not someone… Something. A mask? Yes, it's hard to deny the facts… But have you thought about what follows from that? You could say there's blood spattered everywhere now. When it suits them, Zibenkek deceives you. And you suspected it: which of you is the instrument—and which is being played. What is it like to suppose… to realize you're speaking with a demon?
For the first time during the girl's long monologue, the Seeker parted his lips:
— Unsettling.
A pause hung in the air, until the man added:
— I haven't been this unsettled even in Wynne's presence, given the… delicacy of the situation. Perhaps never before. I've seen a great deal—but not this. That's a fact. And yet… now, here, face to face, I can't stop doubting…
He cut himself off mid-sentence, not letting his words run away with him, and frowned. Morrigan answered with a sardonic smile and a slow shake of her head, as if in agreement:
— If you're right, that should flatter me. Yes? And what would you feel in my place? It seems to me, if you look closely, the difference between my position and yours isn't great. Seeker. Perhaps we are all merely someone's 'masks'. Mm…
In mild irritation at the situation, the girl unconsciously rubbed her forehead and continued where she'd left off:
— Forgive me. So. Enough digressions. Despite everything—even my own suspicions—there will be no confession today. You weren't expecting one. Wasn't that so? Most likely.
Tristan gave a sluggish nod, exhaling almost inaudibly. He rubbed his neck, stretching the pause—displaying the Seeker's uncertainty to the girl with unusual vividness and clarity. And yet he spoke:
— Envy. I'm not talking about the feeling. About the demon. A rare one. A devious soul-devourer and body-snatcher. Ever chasing an unattainable goal: as soon as it gets one thing, it finds another. I see the hints as well as you do. Envy… cunning. Secretive. Doesn't go in for bloodbaths. But worse in another way—it can be anyone. Me. You… an inconspicuous parasite in the human anthill. And that fits the hand we've been dealt poorly—very poorly. This demon values its 'own hide' above all else. At least until it fixes on another target. The nature of the events…
Morrigan slapped her thigh, cutting off the tirade:
— Yes, yes, yes… Wrong scale. Not that. Not this. Are you deliberately missing the point? What's before you is the mask of Envy. Mother told me little about that creature. Rare mentions… But even I… oh, just listen to us from the outside… So. The harm Envy can do is negligible. Of course, the victim doesn't care whether they die by sword or demon. But compared to the others—Rage, Hunger, Pride, Desire—almost anyone is more dangerous. Facts. My feelings aside. It all comes down to…
Morrigan snapped her fingers.
— To choices and consequences. You got your answer. That's it—the end of the road. Yes, that's how it often goes. The answer led you to a new question. What now?
The Seeker's jaw muscles worked as he evidently weighed what to say in response. And then, like a stone, he let a single word fall:
— Duty.
The sorceress wrinkled her nose, making clear what she thought of that excuse. The man shifted his gaze to his remaining hand and continued:
— Choice… A pretty word. But that's not how it is. There's no point indulging in illusions conjured by an overactive imagination. Often there is no choice. And that's not sophistry… Benedict liked old words like that. And you know perfectly well: right now, I cannot afford the luxury of confrontation… with you.
The corner of the Seeker's lip twitched in an attempt at a crooked smile, but he suppressed the impulse.
— Whatever my convictions, desires, and principles might scream, duty prevails. That's where everything flips. What happens next depends on you. It wouldn't surprise me if, after this conversation, you… vanished from Redcliffe Fort. That would be the best proof of your nature. But I can't shake the feeling that I won't see that. Your behavior simply refuses to fit that pattern.
The man's fingers curled into a fist, with only his index finger pointing at the girl.
— You'll stay, casting a deep shadow of doubt over everything. And in that case, you'll witness the arrival of the Chantry's forces. The balance will shift again. I won't be able to indulge in… blindness and silence. This is an obvious risk, contradicting… your… supposed nature. And logic, too. That brings us back to the beginning. If you wait for the Templars, it means your hands aren't empty. You have cards to play. At least one. Besides Zibenkek. Which means we'll both have to act in a race.
Morrigan gave the man a pointed look and spoke with pronounced coolness in her voice:
— A truce… Tristan, Tristan… You've already lost. You know… my own understanding of myself has been tested time and again this past month. Returning to it again and again… I've formed a rough outline of an idea: what I'm built on, what drives me, who I am. Where my goal is. You've already gotten all your answers. I haven't.
The sorceress closed her eyes for a moment, then spoke:
— My path leads to Aeonar.
The Seeker's eyes narrowed, but before he could say anything, the witch countered:
— Save your strength. The way there is known. Zibenkek. The only question is: when and how. And that—is solvable. Are you finished?
Tristan shook his head in mild disbelief and, with a mixture of self-irony and weariness unfamiliar to Morrigan's ears, stated:
— I never would have thought such a conversation would end so… ordinarily. Quietly. But you're both right and wrong at the same time.
This time, the man didn't suppress the smirk that touched his lips.
— Answers always breed questions. And the biggest question I'd now like answered—is who you are. Without that, the whole puzzle remains incomplete. Even if you're unlikely to share what you learn.
Rising, the girl shrugged:
— We'll see.
— No. Let's make a deal.
The Seeker silently reached into a hidden pocket in his garments and, on a thin cord, withdrew a tiny vial, a third filled with a thick liquid the color of red clay. Slowly lowering it onto the table, the man announced:
— It's within your power to verify: the blood is yours.
Morrigan shook her head in bewilderment:
— Just like that? Although… Of course. A gesture of trust.
He nodded:
— Yes. A way to draw a line under it.
* * *
After Tristan opened the door and let Morrigan through, the last thing the sorceress wanted was to end up alone with her own thoughts—the way the Seeker seemed to prefer.
Caught between the embrace of cloying fear and seething rage, she strode toward the Arl's bedchamber.
Through the unlocked door, the room revealed itself unchanged since her last visit. The same atmosphere, the same furnishings, the same pitiful body beneath layers of blankets. And Wynne, standing before the sick man's bed. From behind—like a skillfully wrought statue. Without even turning her head, the healer stopped the visitor at the threshold with a cold, emotionless voice:
— This room is occupied.
Morrigan froze for an instant, then shook her head, surprised more at herself than at what she'd heard. Quietly closing the door, she moved deeper into the room, like a ghost.
— An amusing situation, isn't it? Tristan has likely already exhausted his considerable store of eloquence. Persuasion is his middle name. Yet still, you've both come—here. Although… no. Only you are here. Wynne wouldn't abandon logic like this—not for long.
Slipping past the woman's immobile figure, Morrigan halted near the head of the bed.
— On the other hand… this simplifies matters. You can't argue with the deaf.
The sorceress lowered her gaze to the sick man's face—a man already at the final threshold.
— I suppose every coin has two sides. Power… The higher you climb, the less you see the ground beneath you. In the end, as with that Desire demon in the Hold, your attention narrows to what you need—Wynne or Guerrin. Not a single extra gesture, movement, action. It's not hard to guess: Wynne's knowledge wasn't enough for Eamon. And your power, evidently, is of a different sort. Interesting what that suggests to me… For instance… If the Ashes of Andraste could help, you'd know it. Or else… the very idea of bargaining with anyone is beneath you—otherwise you wouldn't still be here. Though "repugnant" may not apply to you. But waiting while the Arl finally slips away from us, while you return to watching from the sidelines—I don't have time for that.
Turning, the sorceress spotted a small table by the armchair near the entrance: a tray, a plate, utensils—the remains of someone's meal. A few steps, and she was back.
It all reminded Morrigan of Leliana's warning: not to start risky "games" that put herself at stake. But Morrigan's instincts screamed that it would work. It had to work… Everything she needed was right under her nose. She clamped her left fist around the blade and dragged it through her palm, wrenching it free with her other hand. The flash of pain seemed almost an illusion. But the warm blood, slowly filling her palm with heat, felt sharp—almost intimate.
And only then did Wynne stir, meeting the witch's gaze at last. Wariness and surprise—a strange mixture, shown only in the flicker of her lids on that blank face. Yet even that faint reaction made the sorceress's cheeks flush, for no reason she could name.
— A "miracle" is needed, is it not? A little magic. A little lie…
At the same moment the first drops of blood from her fist darkened Eamon's pale blue lips, an almost invisible thread of spellcraft bound the sorceress and Wynne together. For a couple of heartbeats, the soft edges of the room's shadows took on an extraordinary sharpness… Something looked outward through the aged healer—hard, severe… And then, right at the witch's ear, Zibenkek whispered, thick with vicious sarcasm:
— Miracle?.. Fitting—for an ingeniously assembled mosaic of blood, false magic, and faith. A bold interpretation of "equivalent exchange." We participate only this once… Enjoy.
The last word reeked of mockery, and an involuntary chill ran down Morrigan's spine. Time slowed—then stopped. What if she was wrong?…
And then came bright, pure pain—unclouded by shade or qualification. A mighty surge, burning away doubt, fear, and thought, leaving behind only merciless emptiness. A white shroud veiled her vision, and an alien, bestial rasp.
* * *
Morrigan's thoughts rose slowly out of black nothingness. Like a flock of crows circling a dark forest, climbing toward the clouds with each turn. A handful of meaningless, disjointed images spun in that vortex, then knit themselves into what had come before…
Without lingering, her consciousness slid sideways—straight into the conversation with the Seeker. In that memory, it was dangerous… as if a predator lurked in the dark and she ought to skirt it. And yet, only partly returned to herself, Morrigan plunged headlong into the abyss.
Fear, rage, doubt—everything collided at once, fighting for control of the sorceress's mind. For a brief moment, reason prevailed. Perhaps that was a mistake… Morrigan could argue; she could juggle logic. But inside…
Piece by piece, from different sources, the events of that day had become a near-seamless tapestry… and more than ever she wanted to cling to a lifeline of an idea: whatever Flemeth's opponent was, it had perished in the mother's merciless flame. However… still… more likely—to her dismay—it had succeeded. And then… like a crumpled shirt, casually, this body had been pulled on by an 'outsider.'
Who, then, was she? An invader? A mask imagining itself a person for the sake of a convincing performance? An illusion… For some reason, Morrigan knew the answer—just as she knew it was truer than any other guess. But even here, where she didn't need to move her tongue or open her mouth, speaking it was difficult. A word like a cliff… "Memory." That's what she was. But where did the 'outsider' hide? And could she—was it even reasonable—to look for it inside herself?
As her mind and feelings knit back together, the sorceress was able to acknowledge, bitterly, something else… A suspicion born at the edge of half-formed guesses, taking on the dreadful clarity of her nightmares. She had been fighting for herself… against what was left of herself. And the irretrievable loss of that part of her made her want to howl, claws tearing from the inside…
From somewhere deep rose a ferocious hatred for this clever deception that had turned her into a forgery. And that hatred had only one target. Not at once, but Morrigan realized she had trapped herself in a labyrinth without beginning or end. And all her shattered reason could reach for was the endless torment of a single prisoner…
Until, through the soaring, unreachable black arches of the nightmare, a warm touch worked its way through, forcing the distorted dream… no, not to vanish, but only to retreat into the depths—to wait for its mistress's return…
Morrigan slowly opened her eyes. The light of a new day, streaming through a small window, threw pale reflections across the damp streaks on her cheeks. Refracting strangely, for an instant the light flared blood-scarlet in the sorceress's pupils. Her own head felt too heavy to lift. But since there was no need to rise yet—did it matter?
The sorceress lay in bed, naked beneath a blanket. But the ceiling above her resembled none of the rooms in Redcliffe Fort. Perhaps not the poorest sort of place—one of the houses somewhere in the settlement. Blinking, the girl realized: beneath her head was not a pillow, but a woman's thigh, while a warm hand moved gently through her black locks.
Slowly, as if moving through molasses, Morrigan turned her head, only to meet pale green eyes watching her closely from beneath a cascading fiery mane. Despite the ambiguity and the tender movement of fingers, Leliana's gaze held neither warmth nor concern—only detachment and thoughtfulness, as if she, too, were lost somewhere far away.
From the corner of the room came Marjolaine's quiet voice, carrying a light bitterness, like an expensive northern spice:
— Leliana, it seems your lover has come to. The picture… is remarkably peaceful.
Turning her head a little more, Morrigan could make out the woman in the corner of the small room. She was warming herself on a bench by a lit stove, wearing only a nightgown. With her long legs crossed and her chin propped on her fist, the bard twirled a crude Fereldan pipe between the fingers of her perfectly healthy hand, from which a single ribbon of bluish smoke lazily rose toward the ceiling.
The sorceress sensed Leliana sigh.
— It's exhausting.
— For you? Hmm… And what if she thinks otherwise?
As if through a light haze, Morrigan caught it: the jab was meant to provoke her reaction specifically, not Leliana's. But her thoughts, emotions—everything inside her—hadn't quite caught up with events. Moistening her lips, the sorceress croaked dryly:
— Did it work?
Throwing her head back, Leliana let out a long groan of sheer irritation. From Marjolaine's direction, by contrast, came a pleasant, throaty laugh. Drawing deeply on her pipe and exhaling a smoke ring, she remarked:
— I like her.
— Of course you do… She's that mad.
Lowering her head back toward Morrigan, Leliana, with her free hand, poked a finger between her companion's eyebrows and asked:
— Was there no other way? Didn't we talk about this? It looked like an elaborate form of suicide.
Tracing a slow circle with the smoking end of her pipe, Marjolaine nodded:
— I agree.
Morrigan closed her eyes briefly, noting, with slight surprise, that the warmth of the leg beneath her head, this small heated room, and the situation as a whole had a calming effect on her. 'Returning' to reality, she cleared her throat and clarified in a hoarse voice:
— How did it look from the outside?
Before speaking, Leliana stared out the window:
— A scream… A rasp… you must have heard it all through the fort. Hard to imagine… what you'd have to feel to scream like that. Again and again, breaking only to gulp air… The first to come running, of course, were Tristan and Isolde. Then others, including the two of us. It looked…
The red-haired woman faltered, furrowing her brows, but Marjolaine finished the broken sentence without difficulty:
— Like a fragment of someone's nightmare.
Drawing on her pipe again, the elder of the two bards arched an eyebrow, as if carrying on a silent conversation with her former pupil. Leliana, who had turned at her mentor's voice, barely moved her lips and returned her gaze to Morrigan:
— You stood at full height, your head thrown back, convulsing. Like a puppet in someone's fist that wouldn't let you fall. And you screamed. Blood… Judging by the knife on the floor, you cut your own palm?
Morrigan slowly nodded, and Leliana continued:
— Bloody threads writhed, like a writhing tangle of wet worms bursting from your flesh, and entered the Arl's mouth. And Wynne… a silent statue, nothing less. Only her trembling fingertips hinted she was alive. I can't imagine what you set in motion, but… it was doing the Arl good. Color was returning to his face, his breathing growing deeper.
Leaning back against the wall and pointing at Morrigan with the sharp end of her pipe, the elder Bard interjected:
— One thing stood out… The Seeker tried to stop it. I suspect not only in obvious ways. But the Arl's wife prevented him—unequivocally.
The sorceress nodded weakly, speaking more easily now:
— Predictable. The result?
Leliana sighed:
— The result… This time you crossed a line, and you're asking about the result… You collapsed to the floor just as you'd been standing. Wynne abruptly stopped playing statue and, with a convulsive gasp—as if waking from a long, clinging nightmare—was the first to rush to you. I've never seen Tristan so bewildered. Or so lost… Isolde, of course, rushed to her husband. Arl Eamon… Later, Wynne confirmed: he was healed. No signs of poisoning or internal necrosis from the toxin—only significant weight loss and exhaustion. By day's end, he'd even regained consciousness. Completely disoriented… And your… highlanders nearly started a bloodbath in the inner courtyard when they carried you out.
Morrigan snorted, found Leliana's bare foot under the blanket, and gave it a slight squeeze, immediately drawing a faint blush from the girl:
— You smoothed things over?
Instead of her, Marjolaine answered in a thoughtful tone:
— Oh, yes. She dashed about like one of the Furies, drilling it into those empty-headed fanatics: you performed a miracle. Literally brought the Arl back from beyond. And miracles, after all, never come easily to anyone. I must admit, it worked. Your Tristan… apparently had his own opinion of what was happening. But, as Leliana noted, the man couldn't keep up with events. You know…
The woman pointed with her pipe first at Leliana, then at Morrigan.
— At first, you two had me thoroughly confused. Even later, when the "game" had ended, not everything was obvious—who led, and who was led. But this made the balance clear at once. I know Leliana—inside and out. Although… the one sitting before me is already different from the little bird I once set free. And yet. Between you two… it's like a ball of yarn a cat's been playing with. This is only my opinion, but the problem is this. With one of you, very little happens. And with the other—more than enough. In the beginning, it was surely simpler. That's often how it goes. But now… Either it wouldn't be amiss to draw some boundaries. Or one of you should throw herself into the fray. Why am I saying this?… Ha. In case your roles should ever reverse again…
The bard winked at Morrigan. Elegantly curving her full lips, the woman released another smoke ring toward the low ceiling and, rising gracefully, barefoot and unhurried, went into the next room. Before the door closed, the doorway revealed a small space with a table and another bed, and the light fully outlined the contours of a mature woman's figure.
Raising her gaze to Leliana's thoughtful face, once again lost somewhere within herself, Morrigan said clearly:
— The flesh isn't a problem. For me. Only… that kind of attention could become a problem for you, specifically. If it's about feelings… it's hard to say here. First, decide for yourself.
A faint blush again crept over Leliana's cheeks, and she nodded briefly.
— I assume, once she came to, Wynne healed the wounded?
— Yes. The mentor first. Then me. Then Bethany. She worked tirelessly for a day and a half. Then she collapsed herself, from sleeplessness and exhaustion. That happened yesterday.
— A day… and a half?
— Nearly two. For one day, you were like a corpse—except that you were warm and breathing. Then… the nightmares came back to you. Endless, boundless. And no matter how I tried, I couldn't wake you. So, in the end, I simply…
Morrigan's mouth twitched, and she squeezed her companion's leg tighter:
— It may be… only your touch pulled me out of that black whirl.
— It seems you leave another piece of yourself there each time… whenever you trade your life for victory.
The sorceress was silent… And Leliana didn't press, having perhaps spoken the words more to herself. Though the silence that settled in the room was brief, it felt almost tangible… stale air, sweat, old linen, smoke from the pipe…
— Hmm… Let me ask. Does it have…
— Yes. The conversation with Tristan has a direct bearing on it. It revived many of my suspicions and doubts… in the worst possible form. But there's nothing you can do about that.
A pause opened up; after a few minutes, Leliana's cautious voice filled it:
— You didn't answer.
— True…
Morrigan felt a faint echo of anger.
— And what do you want to hear? My cunning plan? How I had it all figured out?..
Pulling herself together, Morrigan rose—first to a sitting position, then lowering her feet to the cool floor, standing. She wasn't in the least embarrassed by the fallen blanket. Tucking her hair back, the girl walked on unsteady feet to the small window, looking out at the bright winter day. Slowly turning her head back, the witch let her gaze glide over the rumpled sheets and the female silhouette in the nightgown beside the tangled blanket. The bard, as if for the first time, traced with her eyes the curves of the dark-haired sorceress, so shamelessly bathed in daylight. Closing her eyes to massage her lids, Morrigan said:
— The conversation with the Seeker frightened me. Enraged me. Which was more… impossible to tell. I wanted… to act. To choose. To risk. Everything at once. I…
The words tangled like hair in a gust. Morrigan inhaled through her nose, slowly, to avoid coughing. She felt a tremor—not in her body, but inside, like a taut string. Meeting those green eyes, the girl shook her head, disagreeing with what she'd said, with herself. Compressing her lips until they turned white and starting over, Morrigan deliberately adopted a measured, instructive tone:
— Blind impulse. A leap into the abyss on a gamble. Oh… how I wish that were the truth. Without this cold, alien calculation. We talked about this, didn't we?.. Yes… I boasted that everything was under control. That one must be able to accept change. That was it… Do you understand? That was… and… is. Logic. Here is the madness… What if the very voice I called "logic" was the alien thing from the start? Everything under control. But whose control is it?
Leliana stared at the sorceress before her, stunned. And it wasn't hard for Morrigan to imagine how it all looked from the outside. The witch's head tilted forward and slightly to the side, so she could look at her companion from under her brow; her disheveled black hair, like darkness itself, slid obediently downward. She pressed her palms to her eyes and inhaled deeply. Then she sank her fingers into her locks and dragged her nails back across her scalp. Without lowering her hands—now standing straight—she looked at her red-haired companion again. This time, Morrigan's voice seemed cold and alien:
— What do you expect from me? Even in turmoil, I haven't stopped weighing everything. Everyone needed healing. The spirit of faith was an obstacle—weak, stupid, or unwilling to pay the price. Wynne needed to be freed. But in such a way that her guilt would consume her for a long time to come. And Tristan—his arguments needed to be shoved back down his throat, so he'd choke on his own doubts. The Arl… Wynne… Zibenkek… All pieces on the board. Only a question of price. Take from one. Zibenkek won't let you die. Give of yourself. Yes… And I didn't forget about you… No. Who else would tie up all the loose ends for me? One pawn move… Glory. Renown. Power.
Silence and an elusive threat flooded the room. Red locks swayed slightly as Leliana's chest rose and fell with quick, ragged breaths. Morrigan turned fully and approached the bed, gently threading her fingers into the fiery mane, forcing the bard to lift her gaze to meet hers—green to scarlet. The sorceress's voice became low and insinuating, cutting:
— Masquerades and masks are popular in Orlais. Like nowhere else…
Morrigan faltered, as if feeling for an invisible line she was following:
— And in this "game," you are particularly skilled. Tell me… did you ever confuse the mask with your own face?
Leliana's eyebrows twitched, but Morrigan herself didn't know exactly what she was trying to find in those green eyes, so she continued:
— Did you turn your role, bit by bit, into a masterpiece? So that, in the end, it seemed more real than your own self? In the warped mirror of your lies… did you lose yourself so completely you no longer recognized your own reflection?
— I…
Leliana tried to turn away, but Morrigan's gentle touch abruptly became a rough grip, jerking the girl's head back into place.
— Speak.
With eyes wide in shock, Leliana rasped:
— Twice.
— How… How did that not break you? How did you manage to live with it?
— Not break me?..
Leliana's gaze turned strange, as if looking through Morrigan at something distant, and then the bard's face split with a cold smile—without a hint of warmth or amusement:
— Do you like this mask? Or… the one before? Or… the "sister"?
The sorceress gave a bitter smirk and nodded, as if more to her own thoughts than to the spoken words. The grip in the red hair loosened, and her fingers slid down the smooth cheek. Only after this mad night could Morrigan clearly discern in her companion's eyes the answers to unspoken questions… Leliana, alone with herself in the broadest sense, became unpredictable—dangerous. And for any further closeness, the sorceress found nothing in herself that could justify it. For now, the witch preferred to hope that the bard would make some choice, offering a hint of how to handle her. At last, a whisper issued from the dark-haired girl's lips:
— An answer, too.
Leliana's face smoothed over, like lake water. And in a far calmer voice, she asked:
— Are you hungry?
Morrigan ran her fingers along her temple and tilted her head.
— Incredibly…
A light exhale from the sorceress—almost a laugh:
— Much needs discussing. My affairs won't wait for me.
* * *
Already dressed for a winter walk, Morrigan pulled the creaky bedroom door shut behind her—and was arrested by Marjolaine's voice:
— Have you two sorted things out?
Tutting, whether in fleeting irritation or surprise, the sorceress turned half toward the bard. The woman sat on a chair at a plain wooden table, fully dressed already, her hair neatly gathered, her gaze attentive:
— A random question? Or an ill-timed one?
Marjolaine shrugged, brushing the remark aside as lightly as an autumn leaf:
— Not at all. The broad strokes are clear enough. But in the details, sometimes… nuance can lurk. And the rules of your "game" are difficult for me to understand—or accept. Still, there are other things to occupy the mind. Distractions.
Morrigan nodded:
— Good.
But the bard was far from finished:
— Do you think you can keep her from falling apart?
Morrigan's eyebrows rose in a silent question. In truth, the girl had no desire to engage in this conversation from the start—and now even less so. The bard, by contrast, leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly to the right, and went on, as if explaining:
— It's interesting… I can imagine what Leliana thinks of me and my actions. Or thought… before you met. But… what goes on in your mind?..
The woman allowed herself a restrained smirk, but as quickly as it appeared, the expression vanished. A mirage. And then the words flowed again:
— There are people so broken, it's obvious at once. Terrible to look at. Terrible to be near. We don't like to see what we're made of, up close. And then there are those who seem fine enough—until you live side by side with them, or look closely. Experience helps. I would describe it… like cracks in a mask. And inside, the same thing: a tumor of madness. I'd venture to say that's Leliana's case…
The bard's attentive gaze slid down the sorceress's tense figure, top to bottom, and returned to her face far more slowly:
— And then there are those about whom you can never know what hideous deformity hides behind perfection. Leliana broke where she should have grown stronger—so thoroughly that I saw the crack too late. After that, everything served a single purpose: to hold her together with one piercing truth, one pain, one seared memory. The part of my pupil that managed to hide gave her the luxury of playing one role for a long time. A painkiller, but not a cure.
Leaning forward again and placing her hands on the table, the bard continued:
— And what of you?
The question struck home, and Morrigan felt a cold predator's smile—almost a snarl—push to escape. But she saved it for future "conversations." With the turmoil in her own head refusing to quiet, the sorceress could not serve as a reliable compass for Leliana. And yet Leliana kept staring into the abyss. Still, the witch had no intention of stopping her reliance on the "sister." A sweet hope: that, in this strange journey, no one would lose themselves in their own depths—especially not the witch herself…
— You don't need to be a genius to understand. Self-destruction is a poor alternative to anything. If there's no other path, then… But you had one. Yes, yes… We're all slaves to habits, entrenched decisions, our own comfort—through and through. From what Leliana says, you never managed to talk these past days. And it wasn't her fault. So what's the point of our conversation?
— I care…
— How much of that is truth, and how much a game?
— That, you'll never know. You're free to cast my motives in any light you like. But we both know I could be at some ball in a wealthy trading house right now, or at a reception for a local aristocrat—in silks, making "witty" small talk with fools. A pleasant pastime, no serious obligations, seasoned with intrigue, a little risk, and, before the denouement, a touch of cruelty. Yet here I am, stuck…
Marjolaine held a brief but expressive pause, knowing exactly where to put the emphasis. A dance, not a civil conversation.
— Could it really be all for your own ambitions, foolish self-deception, or manipulation? And of whom, exactly?.. Our relationship… Now we are…
The woman searched for an epithet, a shape. And even now, Morrigan doubted whether that hesitation was part of the performance.
— Too alike to spend long in the same room. A sunbeam bounces endlessly between two mirrors, revealing nothing of their substance. The difference between us… lies in a single choice. Leliana chose flight. I chose action.
The sorceress clicked her tongue in irritation, and the bard smiled, continuing:
— Yes, we've come full circle, back to the start. You do understand: if you want to save her, she needs a purpose. A single one. And the most obvious choice is you. You are her role. Her faith. And that, Morrigan… is not as cheap as you might have imagined.
Squinting, as if searching the sorceress's frozen face for any response or hint, Marjolaine concluded, low and insinuating:
— The most obvious offer before you is the lover's role—for you. In that, she is skilled. I can vouch for it… Hence my first question. Call it a "sacrifice," if you like. A trifle compared to my choice. But then, it would be foolish to compete with you on that score.
For another moment, Morrigan's face remained stone, her scarlet pupils staring into emptiness. She exhaled slowly. The door seemed to dig into her back, but far more irritating was the clotted weight of Marjolaine's words.
Something inside Morrigan trembled, as if cold had been injected under her skin. The tremor came not from anger, but from decision—pushing her to the edge of action, not fencing with words. Without warning, she moved, lunging across the table in one fluid motion. Marjolaine reacted, but sluggishly—like someone admiring a winning hand, not yet realizing the game had turned into a brawl.
Two pairs of hands flew up. Even now, with all of Morrigan's advantage, skill was on the bard's side. With difficulty, she checked her younger opponent, dodging both a dangerous blow and a grab, even managing to inflict pain in return. Or so she thought…
But the sorceress's strikes suddenly lost their rhythm, their sharpness, their straight line. In their place came a jagged tempo—sudden, deadly, coldly fluid. As if the bard had found herself in a room with an entirely different person: methodical, devious, unscrupulous. It ended as it began—in a single heartbeat. Marjolaine's arm flared with sharp pain in a vice-like grip; her body spun violently around its axis… And winding her hair around her fist, the witch slammed the woman's face into the table.
A quiet, angry, almost hissing voice spoke close to her ear:
— No evasions, no pretty words. You're a manipulative bitch who, deep down, is in ecstasy over power, control, and violence. Leliana is your creation. A painting demanding completion. All these words… words… words. Under it all, the cornerstone is control—at any cost, even the cost of yourself. But you've forgotten how to keep things separate. Conversation separate. Blood separate. And so you're unprepared for a sudden shift in the "rules." Let's be clear. My hierarchy of priorities is simple. First place—me. Then… you don't need to know. You are far down the list. Leliana is free to leave. No one will coddle her. If she wants. If she can. Ponder that at your leisure. Every piece on the board has its weight. You are still a pawn. Get dressed. You'll be useful.
Morrigan released the woman and moved to the outer door, watching her. Straightening up, Marjolaine spat blood-tinged saliva onto the floor and licked her lips, almost sensuously. Working her jaw and wincing, she massaged her twisted wrist and asked:
— And her?..
Casting a glance at the door to the next room, the sorceress answered, more hoarsely than she'd intended:
— Everyone has their own affairs.
— So that's how it will be? If I ever…
Morrigan was already opening the outer door, letting in the frost and the bearded faces of Krynitsa and Zhur, but she turned, throwing over her shoulder:
— You're clever. And you've already accepted the rules of the game. Hurry. There's no place here for those who arrive late to the start of the game.
* * *
The road from the settlement down to Redcliffe Fort wound through snow that creaked underfoot, past the distant clink of tools and axes, past echoes of shouts and the occasional reassuring laugh—everything muffled into silence. Only once did Morrigan stop in the middle of an empty street, lost in thought. Quiet words slipped out on their own:
— Not a single dog…
The absence jarred—something in the picture was wrong. Like something that shouldn't be… Dogs fear the possessed—yet they guard their masters. Killed in the fighting? Fled—only to freeze in the surrounding hills? Killed by their own owners' hands, driven to it by hunger? The other livestock in the settlement hadn't survived either. Or… No. Morrigan let the thought go and resumed walking. Only a controlled drift of thought remained—light touches, sifting through meanings without giving them shape.
Near the gates, the witch's sharp eyes caught a familiar figure lifting her hands over a neatly stacked pile of broken shutters, splintered furniture, shattered fence rails. In an instant the wood breathed out bluish smoke. A blink later, sparks snapped from the heap of makeshift firewood, followed by timid tongues of flame. Several people nearby dipped their heads to the short young woman. As soon as she stepped away, they hurried to take her place by the fire, leaving rough wheelbarrows and other simple tools scattered close at hand. The girl turned, surveying the village—mortally wounded, yet still breathing—and at once caught the silhouettes approaching through the white glare.
Bethany came racing toward Morrigan at full tilt. The witch had to spread her arms and stoically endure her pupil's embrace as Bethany flashed a sincere smile. As before, Morrigan's arms did not immediately close around the girl; for a heartbeat they hovered in the air, as if she couldn't recall what was expected of her. She still faltered over what she was meant to feel. Logic said a friendly touch should be returned. And yet…
At last she folded her arms around Bethany and tipped her head, asking softly:
— An embrace?
Bethany let out a short laugh and, not releasing her mentor, nodded.
The older of the two sorceresses, barely aware of what she was doing, pressed her forehead to the fur of Bethany's hood and drew a deep breath before asking:
— Are you all right?
Stepping back and wiping her nose with her sleeve, the younger of the pair nodded again and said:
— I should be asking that question.
— Should you?… Don't trouble yourself.
— Still… Thank you.
— Interesting…
— Oh-oh-oh… I knew it… Of course… Look—judge for yourself. The very first thing my mentor did after returning from her journey was to work a "miracle" and… Leliana mentioned that, more than anything, you value leaving an "imprint" on other people's lives with your actions. An indelible one…
The girl smiled—sadly, but warm—before continuing:
— So when people asked, I told them—told them what mattered. About you, and how it happened. Especially that you made sure I was the one healed. I wanted them to know. To remember.
With a hint of reproach in her voice, Morrigan said:
— Leliana…
— Don't blame her.
Morrigan knitted her brows but didn't interrupt. Her voice held too much life to cut her off.
— I was persistent. And determined. You can be proud of me. I cornered her and… you should've seen her face—like she'd seen a ghost, or like she'd truly wronged me. And your companions?..
— Bethany, this is Marjolaine.
The woman behind the witch, not missing a single word, spoke carefully:
— Your… protégée?
— Perhaps. And my conscience. And those two are highlanders: Krynitsa and Zhur. They make sure I don't hurt anyone. So you're truly all right? I don't mean—
Morrigan made a vague gesture.
Bethany shook her head, clearly taking the beginning of the question as a joke. Then, lowering her gaze, she replied:
— I wouldn't say no to a conversation.
Her eyes flicked from under her brow toward her mentor's other companion:
— Alone.
The bard said with theatrical breathlessness:
— Eh bien—surely I'm not in the way, hein?
— Let's go inside, where it's warm.
* * *
At the fortress's front steps, Morrigan found Schtille. The man had settled on the worn stone as though he belonged there, holding his spear upright in front of him. For a moment, the mage thought she saw snow clinging to the highlander's shoulders; yet beneath his peaceful stillness were the alert eyes of a seasoned warrior. With a grunt, the hunter rose and dipped his head. Neither his gaze nor his posture left any doubt as to which member of the group he deferred to. And try as Morrigan might, she couldn't find a trace of insincerity in it.
Schtille's low, rasping voice broke the pause that had stretched a little too long.
— Chosen. The hunters scouted the hills. Took a peek beyond 'em.
Morrigan narrowed her eyes, studying the man's face, and nodded.
— Game?
Working his jaw, Schtille replied.
— Big game—scared off. Gone far. Might as well be no tracks at all. Wolves and foxes prowlin' the area—skinny, half-starved. Few'll last till the thaw. If you don't ask too many questions… there'll be meat.
— For today? Or…
— For today. And any other day. When the rest get here, there'll be more strong legs and nimble hands. But if you're talkin' about that mob the local men with swords at their belts call an "army"… Don't hold your breath. This land can't feed that many mouths, no way.
— And that… thing I asked about?
Schtille shifted his gaze to the ridge of hills on the horizon.
— Found tracks of the little 'uns. But that's it. Have patience, my lady. And we'll prove our mettle.
With a nod—and a brief clap on the man's shoulder—Morrigan stepped toward the doors. Bethany had only half-listened to the conversation. She seemed more curious about the highlander himself and his manner than the gist of the talk. But Marjolaine was drinking in every word.
As they filed inside, the woman remarked, almost idly:
— Your highlanders seem simple, not too bright. Like the locals—or worse. But then you look closer, and it's like night and day. All from places where they've bred the craft of war since they were knee-high. Yet it isn't paraded—no pedestal for it—it's like the air you don't even think about till you're drowning in it. And every last one of them, bowin' and scrapin' before you.
Pausing in the doorway, Bethany turned to watch Schtille's retreating back and said softly:
— So they do…
Morrigan, busy fastening her warm cloak and, beneath it, another thick tunic, only snorted.
— Jealous?
Marjolaine bared her teeth in a predatory grin, sweeping the mage with a curious look, and agreed:
— Won't pretend I'm not, non?
The witch, exhaling in irritation as a lace tie tangled in the cord hanging around her neck, unfastened her clothes down to her linen shift and turned just in time to see Tralin crossing the hall. The templar was heading outside, and the cluster of women stood right in his path. He meant to give each of them a restrained nod—no wasted words—and pass by, but his gaze caught on Morrigan's chest. His raised eyebrows made it easy to tell: he'd seen something unexpected. A moment later his face smoothed back to neutral, and Tralin slipped past them to the doors and disappeared.
Marjolaine followed the warrior with a mysterious smile, while Bethany, unbuttoning her own clothes, glanced curiously at her mentor. But before she could see what had startled the templar, Alim's silhouette appeared in the doorway of a room to the left. Even from across the hall, the elf's keen eyes caught the gist.
— Morrigan… Truly. Only you would hang a "leash" around your neck so openly.
Weighing a tiny vial of brick-red liquid in her palm, she said:
— It has a different role now.
Turning her gaze to the elf, Morrigan smiled—a predatory curve of the mouth.
— If you think about it, it's more of an amulet. You pay no mind to small things, and soon they vanish altogether. Ever wonder, Alim, if blood magic had but a single source, what that would mean? It's the way of things: weak mages are fated to perish in obscurity—weak, unseen. And the strong, in the end, get branded with a bauble like this. And every mage in the Chantry's service—right in the palm of its hand. Under watch…
The mage's piercing scarlet pupils wouldn't let go of the elf's gaze, and if that look had held any power beyond emotion, Alim was certain he'd have been blinded, at the very least. Meanwhile, the woman's insinuating voice continued.
— There's your explanation, then, for why the persecuted—those thirsting for freedom—turn so readily to this dark power. Power and might without knowledge or effort. Always close at hand. Always somewhere nearby. And the price… When you're at rock bottom, who even thinks about that, eh?
Alim winced and replied:
— You—well. As always. You believe this "trinket" was given to you without ulterior motive. That…
Morrigan sighed, tearing her gaze from the elf and looking at Bethany. The girl was listening intently to the exchange unfolding right in front of her. It was all there on her face—reflection, concentration, curiosity. She even reached out and, without further ado, touched the "amulet." Marjolaine had hung back by the door, as if melting into the wall and the indistinct shadows. Shaking her head, the elder of the two mages spoke.
— Alim… Alim… Of course Tristan wanted to distract me. Lull me. Freedom… How absurd. And you? Are you free? Or anyone in this building? Oh, don't answer. Spare me the foolishness. Here and now, the situation is simple: the leash is of no use to the Seeker. If things turn in his favor, my story ends—once and for all. And if not… You'll see. You're here, I suppose, killing time?
The elf started to object, but even from his expression alone it was clear: Morrigan had hit the mark. So she answered her own question without delay.
— Yes. That must sting, mustn't it… And besides, you're alone. Abandoned and forgotten?
— Tristan went on business he didn't see fit to brief me on. To the Highway. But it's obvious enough… Fortifications, access roads, a camp. Especially since he's got that Warden with him… Riordan. With his squad. The Seeker offered Wynne and my sister a "stroll." I can't fathom Wynne's motives; she still looks exhausted. And my sister… Foolishly, I deemed it unwise and said as much out loud. She latched onto the offer right away. And once she realized I hadn't been invited—that only made it sweeter.
A corner of Alim's mouth twitched, and he finished, quietly:
— At least she's happy.
After him, Bethany added her own remark.
— I was asked too. But… it felt inappropriate. I chose to stay in the Fortress.
Morrigan nodded and added:
— Cultivating an audience… useful. Especially when you're juggling multiple things at once. Isolde and Eamon?
Alim twisted his lips, distaste plain at her interest, but flicked his eyes upward. After that, the mage moved to end the exchange—but as he turned his back, Morrigan's words caught up with him.
— When hopelessness, boredom, and helplessness have finally taken root in you, come. Only death is final and irrevocable.
* * *
As the three figures ascended the stairs, the one bringing up the rear spoke.
— Why am I here? With the way you talk to people… am I here to be a shadow?
Morrigan, in the lead, replied as though it were nothing.
— Hmm… I want to prove to both of us that your presence doesn't hinder me—and cannot. How's that for an idea? Truly… You're clever enough to trace causes and consequences on your own. Or… was I mistaken?
— This isn't the sort of game I enjoy.
— And what do you want to hear from me?
— Forget it.
A few minutes later, the trio reached the bedroom door. Morrigan faltered… for an instant. The door opened before her, exactly as it had that first time. A ghastly aftertaste of nightmare crawled up her spine from her tailbone to the nape of her neck, like alien, cold fingers burrowing into her hair. Gathering herself, the mage smiled at Isolde, who had stepped into the corridor. The lady's dull green eyes swept over her as if seeing the witch of the wilds for the first time. Then warmth flickered—only to be swiftly smothered by guilt. After that, as if fleeing, her gaze darted to the companions. Worry was written plainly on the woman's round face. Finally, breaking the silence, she spoke.
— We were, of course, expecting you. Not now, but… we both understood this visit was inevitable.
— Have we interrupted something? Je vous présente mes plus humbles excuses, madame.
Isolde's eyebrows rose, and from behind Morrigan came a sound that could be interpreted as nothing other than a stifled, surprised gasp.
— No… not at all. So…?
The witch curled her lip but kept it from becoming a full grimace.
— Bluntness may be out of place here, perhaps. But if, in the past days, you and your husband haven't resolved your "problem"… well. I'm sorry. But not overly so. We need to go inside, and you must decide for yourself which side of the door to remain on. I assure you, this choice will determine a great deal.
The woman opposite tensed, pressing her lips into a thin line. Then she bowed her head, stepped aside, and gestured toward the interior.
The same bedchamber… the same scents, once dissected by the Seeker with painful precision into their constituent notes. But the mood was different. Something intangible in the air had shifted from winter to spring, and this place no longer felt poised to become a tomb. In the center, in the same spot—on the bed—lay a weak, sickly gaunt man. Now shorn, and surrounded by documents scattered across the blanket. Arl Eamon. A pair of grey eyes immediately rose from the papers in his bony hands to the new arrivals, piercing them with curiosity, apprehension, and a thirst for action.
A low, firm voice said:
— Morrigan…?
Closing the door behind them, Isolde signaled to the mage at the front of the group with a glance. Eamon caught his wife's gaze. For a moment, his jaw tightened, as if with a sharp pang of pain. But as it came, so it ebbed. The arl closed his eyes gratefully, then focused all his attention on the dark-haired girl.
— Many speak of you readily. And the opinions differ… radically. Yet, if one thinks on it, all agree on one point: your presence alters the course of events… irreversibly. In my case, I believe I owe you my life. Perhaps my recovery would have happened without your intervention. Someday… But history has no subjunctive. Thank you.
The witch simply nodded.
— I hear you. Waste no more words on it. For you, a benefit; for me, an advantage. And dismiss any notions of nobility or selflessness behind my motives from the start.
In response to this unusual opening, the man in the bed frowned. He clearly couldn't grasp what to expect from the stranger next, and couldn't resist a fleeting glance toward his wife.
— Very well.
— Good. In name, you are the Arl. In reality? Hmm… That's a harsh statement. Insulting. Think it over, without haste. What can you do today with words like that? Most of your allies are now far away. Your people's loyalty is compromised. Your best warriors are scattered. Or dead.
Morrigan paused, letting the man absorb the gist of her words. Marjolaine cut in, dryly:
— Your diplomatic skills are astounding.
— Watch the beauty of the game in silence. So. For now, power is in the Seeker's hands. The Arl's awakening casts a long shadow over every order that bears his seal. But that's temporary. I assume, from speaking with your wife, you've learned the main thing: the Chantry army. Still, in the long run, the guests desperately need legitimacy. From the King's hand would be ideal. But you'll do, if nothing else remains. Do you agree to play the pawn?
Eamon, with a slight irritation visible more in the movement of his hands than in his face, cast the papers aside and asked:
— Well then. You set the tone for this conversation yourself. Let's not dance around it. Kindly explain what you're proposing—and what you stand to gain.
— Power. And power.
Morrigan's eyes flared blood-scarlet, fixing on the arl with an intensity that made him falter for a heartbeat. The meaning of her words didn't land at once.
— That's too… abstract.
— Oh, no. No… Without me, you—and forgive me, your family—are political hostages. If your reputation holds true, you're doomed to a long, exhausting game, starting from a low position and facing enormous risks. I wouldn't bet on you.
Behind her came Isolde's deep intake of breath. Rage? Fear? But if the lady of the fortress had drawn breath to speak harshly, the words never left her mouth, and the mage continued.
— With me, however…
Morrigan stepped closer to the bed, tilting her head slightly, letting her gaze drift along the walls and up toward the ceiling, as if piercing wood and stone.
— The Chantry army won't arrive on your doorstep lightly. It will be burdened… with contagious ideas. And extra people. My people. You will receive them. You. But that, of course, is not enough. To break the back of this situation, we'll apply an irresistible force. Sometimes, to save a forest, you burn certain trees. Not your own. The necessary ones. A controlled fire wouldn't trouble you, would it?
The man followed the mage's gaze into the void, then found Isolde's eyes again. She was staring at the back of Morrigan's head with something like intensity. In the man's grey eyes flickered an understanding of what might be passing through his wife's mind in that moment. The arl knitted his brows; his gaze snagged on the ornament hanging from the mage's neck, and, choosing his words with care, replied:
— In a time of great need, I would deem it acceptable.
— Splendid.
It wasn't clear where, in that word, Morrigan placed the emphasis that changed its meaning so sharply, but the girl nodded and returned her piercing gaze to Eamon.
— The Seeker will come to you. Again. And again. Remember what I could do, and he couldn't. Use my words freely. Consider our bargain struck. For you—real power. For me—your unwavering support, just as you once gave the King.
The arl's eyebrows shot up in surprise he couldn't conceal, but Morrigan only bowed her head respectfully, turned to Isolde, repeated the gesture, and swiftly departed the marital chambers.
Three steps from the closed door, Bethany spoke.
— That was… intense. Such pressure on him…
— For his own good. But first—for mine, of course. Were he healthy and on his feet, with his son… the outcome would have been different.
Near the stairs, Marjolaine's voice cut through.
— She sang your praises? Hidden threats by a sick man's bedside, promises… innuendo. Bold… That is, if you're not desperately bluffing. And it all looks exactly like that…
Morrigan whirled on her heel and seized the woman, twice her age, by the throat, pinning her to the wall. Nearby, Bethany sucked in a sharp breath, allowing herself neither sound nor word. The mage's hand squeezed the bard just enough to force all her attention onto the words that followed.
— What's your role? Leliana—an advisor. Bethany—a conscience. And you? Come on.
Taking a gasping breath and making no attempt to free herself, the woman rasped back.
— You read… too much into things, especially where your precious self is concerned. Who am I? The one ready to sink her claws into your plans. To keep you from feeling too… comfortable. A shitty role… but there it is. You know perfectly well you've already hooked me on these intrigues.
Morrigan abruptly released her hand. The bard immediately doubled over, struggling to catch her breath. The mage turned to Bethany.
— And what do you say?
The younger of those present looked frightened and lost. Shaking her head in bewilderment and not taking her eyes off Marjolaine, Bethany said:
— That I can't keep up with you…
To draw her attention, Morrigan touched the girl's cheek and, as gently as she could, said—though the words were harsh.
— That won't do. You must keep up. Or you'll be used… in the worst possible way.
Meeting that scarlet gaze steadily, Bethany replied:
— People usually wear each other down, as a knife dulls over time. And then they can't cut each other anymore. But with you… it's the opposite. I'd… rather not feel pain every time I'm near you. Mine or someone else's.
The witch nodded.
— Good advice. Direct, honest. Dangerous, like a knife at the throat… And that's why it keeps you from growing complacent.
Turning to Marjolaine, she added:
— There's an example for you.
* * *
Two girls walked through the snow-covered village around Redcliffe Fort, almost as if it were nothing. Morrigan took in the snow-dusted ruins of what had once been cozy homes. Bethany, meanwhile, kept glancing toward the grey horizon, as if searching for something there. At last, the older mage spoke quietly.
— You wanted to talk?
— Yes…
Bethany crouched down and scooped up a handful of snow with her woolen mittens, which were a size too big for her.
— A lot's been troubling me. And I wanted to share it with you. But first…
She rose, turned to her companion, and asked:
— Why wasn't Leliana with you today?
Clasping her hands behind her back, Morrigan lifted her gaze to the heavy, low-hanging sky, trying to recall when her friend had sensed something wrong. On the outside: Morrigan. Inside… someone else. More dangerous. Or more empty. At last, her thoughts coalesced into a single word.
— Afraid.
— Leliana?
Morrigan's head turned slowly toward her pupil, and her scarlet gaze seemed to pin Bethany in place.
— You're afraid, too. And that's surely one of your questions.
Morrigan breathed out and explained:
— She reads faces and intonation—sees through words. Her gift. Her curse. And you… you're naïve. Something frightens you, but you can't quite put your finger on it. Leliana could. Marjolaine is no less good at it. Not at all… But she only just met me. Do you understand?
— What's happened to your eyes?
Morrigan blinked several times, surprised by the change of subject, and repeated:
— My eyes?
— Gold, amber… your eyes' color. Warm. But then you returned from this journey… and it was gone. Now they're scarlet. I think, if it were dark, they'd glow in the night. Fierce. Dangerous… alien.
Morrigan lowered her gaze, slowly pulled off her mitten, and touched the corner of her right eye.
— Is that so…
Silence held for a moment. Then Morrigan looked at her pupil again.
— No, it's not about the journey. It's about… what the Seeker told me. You see… Leliana sensed… as if I were no longer myself. As if someone were pretending to be me. Perhaps… my eyes played a part, too. Maybe… And that fear of hers wasn't for herself. It was for what she understood. So she decided she needed to be alone.
Morrigan glided a step closer to Bethany and asked:
— Do you think so, too…?
The snowball Bethany had formed slipped from her hands and sank at once into untouched snow. Morrigan's gaze darted down after it, and she said:
— I see.
— No, I—
A raised hand cut the girl's outburst short.
— Given the circumstances, it's normal… normal. Perhaps that's how it's been all along, since that ill-fated day. My "self"—just greasepaint on someone else's canvas…
Stretching her lips into a wild smile and looking around, Morrigan drew a deep breath of the frosty air.
— They put it on me—like a mask.
Her scarlet gaze snapped back to Bethany, who looked as though she were alone with a predator. Yet even now—swallowing hard, frowning—she stood her ground with the last of her strength, returning gaze for gaze. Morrigan's bare fingers, slightly reddened by the cold, brushed Bethany's dry lips, and Morrigan said, too softly:
— And it seems to me… I'm almost certain. Beneath the mask, there's nothing…
Her hand dropped onto the girl's shoulder, gripping painfully; her gaze bored from beneath lowered brows, and her voice sank to a low rasp, in time with her ragged breath.
— If I were to tear it off…
She was interrupted by a completely unexpected tear; it slid down Bethany's cheek and instantly frosted over. The girl took an unsteady step forward and embraced Morrigan—carefully, fearfully. Like a dangerous beast… And yet…
Morrigan stared into the void and spoke slowly:
— How long have you had this strength in you…?
Bethany nodded, too fast, and replied:
— You asked me not to fall behind. Don't frighten me like that, all right?
Morrigan frowned. It seemed no answer would come—but then a quiet voice spoke.
— To each, what they expect. For an enemy—its opposite.
— Let it be so.
— Your worth is immeasurable…
Morrigan pulled back and stepped away, the snow crunching under her boots. The fevered fatalism drained from her face. She studied the girl before her thoughtfully, as if for the first time.
— What's the second question?
Bethany raised her mittens to her face as if warming her hands, but really hiding behind them. Then, gathering her courage, she spoke:
— You talk about my worth so much… It's nice. But… I don't want… I don't want to remain just a "conscience." Is that what you call it? In that fight, I was practically useless. One accident…
Morrigan cut her off, sternly:
— Bethany.
— Let me finish. You—
— Bethany!
Silence hung in the air. Morrigan shook her head, searching for words, and continued:
— You were unlucky. A similar blow… it wouldn't have mattered who took it. The result would have been no different. Believe me. And at the same time, you were lucky. You were a hair's breadth from death. How could anyone be prepared for that? Who could have known… well, except the Seeker. Is that what's gnawing at you? That feeling of inadequacy?
Bethany shrugged and replied:
— Yes.
Morrigan grinned and shot back:
— As long as you stay close, you're not just a conscience. You're a reminder of why it's still worth being myself. And all we both need right now is a bit of routine. And training. Come on…
Morrigan hooked a finger under her pupil's chin and, pulling on her mitten, set off at a brisk pace down toward the village crossroads. Bethany let out a slow breath, releasing the tension, and shook her head, still at a loss.
* * *
A dance… Fling up an arm, step, spin with grace… Feel for the rhythm. Follow it. But instead of rhythm—the beat of her own heart. And this dance wasn't for show at all…
Something deep inside Morrigan had gone numb—yet ached to feel pain again. To feel her own flesh as an inseparable part of herself. It demanded she come as close to the edge as possible. As close as was reasonable…
And so, this early morning, under the orange eye of the winter sun, the girl was in the back courtyard of their home. Their shared home. Alone… Breath misting in the air, heat-mist rising from her bare torso. The crunch of snow. The whistle of a pole, torn from the nearest fence, spinning in her hands. Black locks, either flying wild or plastered to her sweaty face. Her frenzied gaze darting, wild and unfocused. And occasionally—forced out through clenched teeth with a burst of air—another spell, aimlessly flung at a garden tree sleeping through winter.
And yet, it had truly begun like a dance… Wrapped in morning twilight—smooth, fluid, harmonious. But her heart beat faster and faster…
The previous evening, Morrigan had spent with Bethany, mending their teacher–student relationship. And she'd noted how calming it was, pushing all anxieties to the background. Mentorship, responsibility, magic, and those attentive brown eyes across from her. Nothing else. Though the locked door to Leliana's bedroom—behind which indistinct sounds of her quiet conversations with Marjolaine sometimes drifted—still troubled Morrigan, tirelessly. And, of course, she couldn't miss the irony.
Night… The situation hadn't fundamentally changed. But loneliness, darkness, and thoughts had been added. They were like shards of broken glass she kept catching herself on—endlessly, with no beginning and no end—tearing herself apart from within. At times, she began to think that sea of fragments was all that remained of her. She desperately tried to fish something out from among them. But each shard answered her with blazing scarlet eyes, or with a skin-stretched, eyeless skull. In the end, dreamless sleep finally overtook the witch…
She turned again; with a flick of her wrist the pole whistled as it spun around her arm. And then Morrigan caught sight of a red-haired figure wrapped in a blanket. Pale-green eyes watched the witch with an unnatural mix of fear and an undefined longing. Suddenly something in Morrigan's mind clicked into place, taking over from the obsession that had reigned there for the past two hours. The dance didn't slow a whit, but its pattern smoothed, ceasing to resemble a ragged battle with herself. Dissolving into that pattern, pushing everything else aside, the mage drove her body to its limits. Spinning on her heel and flinging wet black locks aside, Morrigan abruptly stopped—only to toss her raven mane back with a sharp jerk of her head. The pole, spinning languidly through the air, plunged into the snow at a slight angle, three paces to her right. Her scarlet eyes fixed on Leliana. Slowly—careful not to startle her—the witch took a step, then another… until she stopped directly in front of the bard.
A calm figure in a blanket facing her—bare and panting. Morrigan peered intently at the girl before her, who was looking at her from under her brows. And the longer the silence stretched, the more the witch's breathing calmed, the more the sweat cooled on her skin, threatening to crust it with rime… the more a sly, predatory smile spread across the dark-haired girl's face.
Finally, Morrigan lifted her chin and, in a low, rasping voice, said:
— Enjoying the view…?
Leliana's gaze dropped, involuntarily, to her friend's proudly raised chest; her brows drew together at once, and her head jerked away, showing her profile and cheeks reddened by the cold. After a short pause, she spoke.
— Let's go inside. I don't know your limits… but any normal person without a healer-mage would be laid up for weeks after something like that. Even if Avvar tales do mention naked, painted warriors dancing under the winter moon.
Morrigan shifted her weight to her right leg, placing her left hand on her hip, and asked:
— Figured yourself out?
Leliana met that scarlet stare again.
— Have you?
— Touché. Lead the way.
The bard's eyebrows rose a fraction in mild surprise. With a nod, she turned toward the house—then faced the mage again and, overcoming her hesitation, lifted the edge of the blanket, as if inviting Morrigan inside. Now it was the witch's turn: her eyebrows jumped. But, with a snort, she slid closer, feeling a careful touch on her shoulder.